


The Case of the Sulking Detective

by EbonyKnight



Series: The Adventures of Greg and Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: An instinctive reaction on Greg's part leads to the most epic sulk he's ever witnessed. If sulking was an Olympic sport, there is no doubt in Greg's mind that Sherlock would be a gold medallist.





	1. The start of the Great Sulk of 2016

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by my dear friend RomanyWalker. 
> 
> I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything associated.

The stairs up to Sherlock’s flat creaked under his weight as he ascended, and, after the day he’d had, Greg found it almost soothing. No murder case was ever easy, but he found those involving children more difficult than most, even when he was able to solve the case quickly to give closure to the parents. He let himself into the flat, doing his best to push away images of his own children at the same age as the victim. 

To his disappointment, Sherlock was nowhere to be found despite his promise to Greg that he would be in all night. Tired to his bones, he moved a pile of assorted papers to the floor and dropped down onto the worn sofa without even removing his coat, letting his head fall back onto the cushion. Three days on that case, and all he wanted was a quiet night with Sherlock. Maybe some bad telly, a takeaway, and, if he was lucky, a bit of fun before bed. Sherlock's earlier messages had made it seem more than possible, and he had been looking forward to their time together all day. He considered getting up and going home, back to his flat where there was at least had a decent bottle of beer in the fridge, but his exhaustion won and he was asleep before he could move. 

Greg came awake a while later when he felt Sherlock drape himself against his side; the other man nosed gently against his neck, his right hand slipping inside Greg’s coat and came to rest on his thigh, before taking his lips in a tender kiss. Greg responded eagerly, deepening the kiss as he came fully awake. 

“You can wake me up like that any time you like,” he said as parted, stroking Sherlock’s fringe back from where it had fallen into his eyes. 

Sherlock smiled, a small, warm and rarely seen quirk of his lips before leaning in for another kiss. It took mere moments for their kiss to become heated, and Greg soon had six feet of consulting detective in his lap. He pulled the other man’s shirt out of his trousers and slowly worked his hand under the material so he could stroke the smooth skin of his back. Sherlock shuddered under his touch, pressing closer and bringing their groins together. 

Greg had initially been surprised by how thoroughly his lover lost himself when they were intimate, but he had quickly realised that his surprise had been misplaced; Sherlock had always thrown himself fully into the things he enjoyed, becoming absorbed by them to the exclusion of everything else. It certainly seemed that their sexual activities fell into that category and Greg was delighted to find that Sherlock was a passionate lover and fucking fantastic kisser. So passionate and fantastic, in fact, that Greg almost didn’t hear the downstairs door closing, and Sherlock missed it completely. 

“Sherlock,” Greg said, reluctantly pulling away and putting some space between them, “you’ve got a visitor.” He moved his hand out of the other man’s shirt and placed it on his hip, preparing to help him stand.

Sherlock appeared to concentrate for a moment before relaxing again. “It’s John,” he replied distractedly, moving in to kiss Greg’s neck, seemingly not bothered that his best friend was about to find them making out on the sofa like a couple of randy teenagers. 

Greg barely registered the kiss, feeling panic fill him. “What?” he yelped, and practically lifting Sherlock off him in his attempt to get up from the sofa. Somehow, between his frantic effort to get up and put some distance between them, Greg’s right knee had connected unfortunately with Sherlock’s groin, and the taller man ended up half way across the room, clutching desperately at his wounded manhood.

“What the _Hell_ , Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded, voice tight with pain, just as the front door of the flat opened, revealing John Watson with Sherlock’s coat draped over his left arm. 

John looked from Sherlock - who was doing his best to stand up straight - to Greg and back again with a raised eyebrow. “Interrupting something, am I?” he asked mildly. 

Greg felt his face flush and he desperately hoped that he didn’t look as guilty as he felt. 

“Nothing at all; Lestrade was just leaving, in fact. Thank you for returning my coat, John. It was remiss of me to leave it in your car. Good night.” He spun on his heel dramatically and stalked off into his bedroom, slamming the door in his wake.

Greg winced at the bang and was unable to supress a twinge of guilt at seeing the slight limp in Sherlock’s stride. “I’ll just take that for him, shall I?” he asked, crossing the room and taking the long coat from him.

John looked at him suspiciously. “What’s going on? I know he can be a stroppy sod, but it really takes something special to get him stomping off to his bedroom like a toddler these days.”

Greg groped around for a satisfactory explanation, hoping to get John out of the flat so he could deal with Sherlock in private. “We had a bit of a disagreement,” he said finally. “Nothing for you to worry about. Why don’t you get off home and leave this to me?”

The other man did not look convinced but nodded his acquiescence. “Fine,” he said to Greg before turning towards the hall that led to Sherlock’s bedroom and shouting, “I’ll be in touch, Sherlock!”

There was a moment’s silence before Sherlock replied, “Piss off!”

Oddly, John seemed to find that reassuring, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Right, I’ll be off. Night.”

As soon as Greg heard the downstairs door shut he made for Sherlock’s bedroom and was unsurprised to find the door locked. Another snapped ‘piss off’ followed his knocking, and Greg dropped his head onto the door with a thunk. 

“Come on, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“Which part of ‘piss off’ is confusing to you, Detective Inspector?”. 

It was obvious that he wasn't going to get through to Sherlock that night, so Greg decided that a tactical retreat was in order. “Alright; I’m going home, but we need to talk about this. I’ll be in touch,” he told the door.

The journey home seemed to take an age, and by the time he got there after a fifteen minute walk to his car and an indeterminate length of time crawling through London traffic, Greg was thoroughly embarrassed by his reaction to John’s impending arrival, and felt sick with guilt at having hurt Sherlock, however inadvertently. Whilst he didn't feel ready to be found in an amorous clinch with his lover, certainly not by said lover’s ex-army best friend, his panicked reaction was certainly not something to be proud of. 

He let himself into his flat and turned the living room light on, trying not to feel too disappointed that he was spending the night alone. Pulling his phone out, he settled into the armchair by the window and found two missed calls and four texts, all from John.

 **John Watson:** WTF Greg?

 **John Watson:** First Himself leaves his coat in my car when I would have sworn that he was surgically attached to the damned thing, and then I walk in on whatever the hell that was

 **John Watson:** He’s changed his voicemail greeting to “Leave a message unless you’re an idiot detective inspector, in which case, piss off.”

 **John Watson:** FFS answer your phone

Greg groaned and buried his face in his hands. There was no way John would let it go, not if he thought Greg had done something to upset Sherlock, and it was very clear that he had. Deciding that the sooner he fixed his fuck up the better, he dialled Sherlock’s number. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Call me, please.”

He stayed where he was, planning to give the other man half an hour to call back before he showered and went to bed, but was asleep, head falling back to rest on the cushion, within five minutes.


	2. Worst Foot Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes and disclaimer at the top of chapter one.

Greg awoke with a start at three o’clock in the morning when the shrill ring of his work phone pierced the silence. Cursing at the pain in his neck from sleeping at such an awkward angle, he fished it out of his pocket and blinked blearily at the screen. 

“DI Lestrade,” he answered gruffly, stifling a yawn. 

The sergeant on the other end of the line was very apologetic for waking him at such an unholy hour, but quickly explained that a body had been found behind a pub in his patch.

Within twenty minutes he was out of the flat, clutching a travel mug full of nasty instant coffee, and on his way to the crime scene.

The half hour journey from his flat to the crime scene was spent with a seemingly endless mental replay of the previous night’s disaster. The early morning London traffic blurred indistinctly before him, and by the time he was approaching his destination Greg felt sick to his stomach. He’d never been a physically demonstrative person, something that his ex-wife bitched about often enough, but Sherlock certainly was; he'd never had much respect for notions of personal space, but since they’d changed the nature of their relationship he was almost always touching Greg in some way. 

He parked as close to the pub as possible, turned off the engine, pulled his personal phone out and called Sherlock. “It’s me. Look, I know I overreacted last night. I’m sorry. Call me.”

Once on the scene of the crime he was busy enough that he was able to put the situation to one side. Having a new constable on the team and trying to get the scene processed before the forecasted rain rolled in ensured the whole team were kept on their toes, and it was gone mid-day by the time they made it back to the station. 

“So, boss,” Donovan said as they entered his office with copies of the statements from the pub’s staff, “sounds like an open and closed domestic to me; we find the boyfriend and we find the killer.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed distractedly, digging into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He tried not to let his disappointment show upon finding that Sherlock hadn’t been in touch. He tapped out a quick message asking him to call, again, and dropped into his chair with a grunt. “What did you make of Jones?” he asked, personally thinking that the new constable had done well for his first murder with the team. 

He was half listening to Donovan’s critique as he opened the middle drawer of his desk, where he kept a stash of snack foods for when they were on a hot case and he didn’t have time to get a decent lunch, when his hand landed on something that was decidedly _not_ a packet a Walkers ready salted crisps. Looking down into the drawer, it took a long moment to register what his eyes were seeing: his hand was grasping a foot. A _human_ foot.

“Jesus Christ!” Greg exclaimed, pushing so forcefully away from the desk that his chair rocketed back into the flimsy wall, and he had to catch himself on the filing cabinet behind his desk. 

“Greg!” Donovan shouted, startled. She was around to Greg’s side of the desk before had fully righted himself, and was soon staring, aghast, into the drawer. “That’s…is that a foot?” she asked, paling and clearly struggling to accept what she was seeing. 

Heart racing, Greg moved his chair out of the way and stepped closer to his desk, peering into the drawer. In all of his years on the force he'd _never_ heard of body parts randomly turning up in a DI’s office. “What the _Hell_?” he muttered, more to himself than Donovan. 

To his surprise, he heard a cut off giggle from his second, and she slapped a hand across her mouth before any more could escape; her eyes looked slightly wild and she was clearly struggling to contain herself. It briefly crossed Greg’s mind that the foot could be part of some prank she was part of, but he quickly ruled that out; Donovan liked a laugh as much as the rest of his team but trading in body parts wasn't her style. 

“Well?” he asked, unable to stop his eyes straying to the foot. Thankfully it didn’t seem to have been releasing blood or other fluids, but he still wasn’t particularly keen on touching it again. 

“You’ve got to admit it’s kind of funny, sir,” she replied, looking like she was holding back laughter by the skin of her teeth. “You haven’t pissed off Holmes, have you? Body parts in drawers are right up his freaky street.”

As soon as Donovan said his name, Greg knew that she was right: a foot in his desk drawer was _exactly_ the kind of thing a pissed off Sherlock Holmes would do, and the other man was certainly pissed off. Greg snorted and wiped his left hand across his face in exasperation, but he felt relief mixed in with his annoyance; had he done irreparable damage to their relationship, he was sure that the other man would have cut him out of his life completely. Either that or sent Mycroft after him, in which case he knew he probably wouldn't still be alive to be finding feet in the first place.

“I trust you can keep this to yourself?” he asked, glancing at Donovan as he dialled Molly’s number.

She nodded, her curly hair bouncing with the movement. “You think it’s him, then?” She took his glower as he put the phone to his ear as a yes and smirked. “You must really have put your foot in it to deserve that!” she said, pointing at the foot, before dissolving into laughter.

Greg was only half listening, but spared a moment to scowl at her as he waited for the call to connect. “Molly,” he said when the pathologist finally answered, “I don’t suppose you’re missing a right foot?”


	3. Electrical Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer at the top of chapter one.
> 
> Thanks to those people leaving Kudos. They make me smile :)

The weather, when Greg was finally able to leave the office for the night, was absolutely awful. “Indian summer, my arse,” he muttered to himself as he pulled the collar of his coat up to cover his neck and made a dash for his car.

It continued to pour down as he battled his way through the tail end of London’s rush hour towards Baker Street. As ever, he had to park a good fifteen minutes from Sherlock’s flat and he was drenched and half frozen by the time he got there. He thought better of letting himself in, considering that Sherlock still hadn’t returned any of his messages, and his voicemail greeting still declared Greg to be an idiot. The lights were on in the flat and Greg could see Sherlock’s silhouette in the window.

He pressed the buzzer and waited, getting wetter and colder by the second. After a minute he pressed it again. After receiving no answer he called Sherlock’s mobile, and it went straight to voicemail again. Greg sighed in frustration and ended the call without leaving a message. Desperate, he pressed the buzzer for Mrs Hudson’s flat. Unlike her tenant, she answered the door with a smile and pulled him into the house. 

“Really, Greg, standing out in the rain; you’ll catch your death! You’ve got to be more careful now you’re past fifty, you know,” she fussed, bustling into her flat. 

“Only just past fifty, ta,” Greg replied and followed her inside, eyes taking in the details of her home. The furniture was worn but well-loved, and photos of her family and friends hung on the walls. On the mantelpiece was a photo of a younger Sherlock with his violin, accompanying Mycroft on the piano. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said, drawing Greg’s attention from the photo and pressing a hot cup of tea into his hand. “Mycroft gave it to me for my birthday the year Sherlock jumped. Those boys will be the death of me, running around after terrorists and jumping from buildings. Whatever next?” 

“Tell me about it,” Greg replied, eyes straying back to the photo. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and force Sherlock to talk to him, but knew that it would do him no favours with the other man. “Speaking of Sherlock, I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to him today? We had a bit of an argument last night and he’s not taking my calls.”

Mrs Hudson smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “As a matter of fact I have. He gave me this to give to you.” She produced an envelope from the pocket of her apron. “I asked why he couldn’t give it to you himself, but he got all cagey and swanned off.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s gentle fishing for information. He took the envelope from her and handed over his empty teacup. Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, which Greg recognised as the type Sherlock used when he was composing. Doing his best to ignore the flutter of nerves in his tummy, he unfolded the paper to find three words written in Sherlock’s distinctive hand: Piss off, idiot.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said dejectedly, pushing a hand through his hair. “Did he say anything else?”

“Not a thing,” Mrs Hudson replied, unsubtle in her attempt to peer at the note. “Here, have another cup of tea; there’s nothing a nice cuppa can’t fix.”

Greg sighed, put the note back into the envelope, and took the fresh cup of tea from her. “Was he okay?” he asked, sitting in one of the over-stuffed armchairs. 

“He was fine, dear. Looked a little tired, perhaps, but he’s never been one for keeping regular hours. He was probably up all night pickling toes or some other nonsense. Now, tell me how your beautiful girls are doing. Abigail has started at university, hasn’t she?”

It took half an hour to satisfy Mrs Hudson that Abigail and Amy were doing well, that Jane was no longer trying to deny him access to them, and that he was eating enough for an active man in his fifties. In truth he was glad to pass time with her, and particularly enjoyed her baked goods, but the situation with Sherlock was never far from his mind. The drive home seemed to take an age, the torrential rain making people more reckless than normal, and by the time he got home his mood was as bad as the weather.

“Oh, brilliant!” he snapped upon walking into his flat and finding that the hall light wouldn’t come on. He moved into the lounge and discovered that neither the overhead light nor the lamps would work either, and cursed a blue streak.

Within five minutes Greg was well and truly confused; none of the lights would work, and neither would any of the electrical appliances other than the fridge-freezer, but none of the switches on the fuse box had tripped. His limited knowledge of electronics was quickly exhausted, and he resigned himself to an expensive visit from the emergency electrician with a frustrated sigh. Last time he’d had to have Steve the sparkie out, it had cost neigh on five hundred pounds and taken most of the night. 

“A beer first,” he muttered to himself, as grateful as he was confused that the fridge was unaffected by whatever malady was affecting the rest of the flat. 

He opened the door and removed a bottle of London Pride, but stopped just short of closing the door. The salad drawer, which was normally woefully empty, looked to be full of something. 

“You have got to be fucking _joking_ ,” he snapped, for inside the drawer there were eight light bulbs. Greg knew immediately who was responsible for this latest development, and was just glad that his lover hadn’t done anything that could cause permanent damage. Whilst his find certainly explained why none of his lights were working, it didn’t explain why the other electronic appliances had apparently given up the ghost. However, he had once been called the best of Scotland Yard by Sherlock Holmes, and a moment’s thought had him wondering what could have been removed from the appliances to render them useless. 

A minute later, by the light of his mobile and using a steak knife in lieu of a screwdriver, Greg had discovered that the fuse had been removed from the plug of his kettle, and the coffee percolator and toaster were soon discovered to have been given the same treatment. During the investigation of his kitchen appliances he didn't find the missing fuses, but at least hadn't needed to call out a sparkie to get to the root of the problem, and his mood improved slightly. 

Deciding not to trust the vagaries of the internet in establishing if the lightbulbs were still safe to use after however many hours of refrigeration, and having no clue as to where the fuses were, Greg set out for the nearest big Tesco in the hope that they stocked fuses. On his way to the car he called Sherlock, getting his voicemail again. “All right, Sherlock, I know you’re pissed off but enough’s enough. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be at yours after work tomorrow and I won’t be leaving until you let me in.”

It turned out that Tesco did sell fuses and bulbs, and an hour later Greg had light, all of his appliances were working again, and he was finally able to sit down with a drink. He considered getting food, but after the day he’d had his appetite was missing in action and he decided to call it a night.

A quick, blissfully hot shower before bed, and Greg felt better than he had all day. He might not have spoken to Sherlock, and whilst he was certainly missing the other man and still carrying guilt for hurting him, he was oddly reassured by the foot appearing in his draw and the attacks on his electronic appliances. 

As soon as he had climbed into bed, however, he jumped back out, rubbing his back, for it felt like he had lain on a bed of marbles. After throwing back the quilt he was unable to help a snort of laughter; scattered across the side of the bed that he habitually slept on were a dozen fuses. “Vengeful bastard,” he muttered, making short work of picking up the fuses and binning them, before getting back into bed. Unsurprisingly, considering the early wake-up call and the hectic pace of the day, he was asleep within minutes.


	4. The Great Sulk of 16 Continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer at the top of chapter 1.

Greg entered the conference room doing his level best not to glare at the amassed press. His head was pounding, the morning had been consumed almost entirely by pointless paperwork, and Sherlock was still ignoring his calls whilst _he_ was dodging calls from John. The last thing he needed was to get a call from his DCI telling him that he needed to cover a press conference for a fellow DI who'd woken up with a bad case of the shits and was unable to get in. He didn’t know the case and the half hour he had had to quiz one of the detective sergeants working on it was scarcely enough to give him the basics, and Greg had no doubt that the esteemed members of the press present would sense his weakness like hounds picking up a scent and give him hell for it. 

Taking the seat left for him at the table on the platform, he settled in for what he was sure would be a very uncomfortable half an hour. DS Jones, who had been a DC in Greg’s team at one point, gave him a reassuring smile and nudged a cup of luke warm, weak tea in his direction. Greg took a fortifying sip, immune to the taste thanks to repeated exposure over his years on the force, and glanced at his hastily scribbled notes before addressing the waiting crowd. 

The conference went surprisingly well, considering that he was essentially informing them that, yes, Peter Dickson was particularly vicious serial rapist, and no, they had no idea where he was or where he might attack next, until he said, “The team of officers involved is doing everything in their power to find Peter and bring him to justice.” Immediately following this pronouncement, at least a dozen message alerts sounded, and Greg felt his stomach drop. In front of him the reporters pulled out their phones, almost as one. 

Amelia Smith, professional piranha for the Express, raised a painted eyebrow and pinned Greg with a malevolent stare. “It say’s ‘wrong,’ Detective Inspector Lestrade. Can you explain that?” 

The sea of reporters looked at him expectantly, many with poorly disguised expressions of glee, their pens poised over their note books. 

“No,” he replied succinctly, aware that he was flirting with a disciplinary for lack of professionalism in dealing with the press. “I assure you, and the public, that we are working very hard to bring this man to justice. Regular updates are being put out on the website and social media, and women are urged to be vigilant when alone and to travel with company whenever possible. Thank you for your time,” he said and stood from his seat before anyone could question him further.

Furious, he left the conference room as quickly as he could without looking too much like he was fleeing, and pulled out his phone. Once again, he got Sherlock’s answerphone, and his anger got the better of him. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I know you’re angry with me but my job and the reputation of the Met aren’t pawns you can play with because you’re pissed off with me. Do that again and I’ll be hard pushed not have you charged for interfering with an active investigation. If you think you know something, get in touch with Dimmock’s team.” He ended the call knowing that whatever he said would likely make little difference; Sherlock was a law unto himself most of the time, and he rarely listened to anyone other than John, and very occasionally Mycroft. 

Once outside of the building, Greg quickly regretted not stopping by his office to collect his coat. Rain was falling heavily, cold enough that it felt like his face was being stabbed with tiny pins. He ducked his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets, but the material of his suit offered scant protection from the November weather, and on arriving at the Starbucks less than five minutes from the office was frozen stiff. He normally avoided the place, for it was often full of people he spent significant amounts of his work time avoiding, but he was desperate for a decent hot drink and hungry enough that a cheese and ham toastie sounded like heaven. 

He had just placed his order when a hand landed on his shoulder in a firm grip and Greg froze. “Make that two Americanos,” came John Watson’s voice from behind him. “We’ll be at that table up front,” he continued to the barista as he paid for the order, ignoring Greg’s discomfiture.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked over the din, feeling distinctly uneasy as John steered him through the cluster of people and chairs towards the aforementioned table. 

“Can’t a man buy his friend lunch?” John asked innocently, squeezing between two tables to take his seat. 

Greg sat down, doing his best to ignore how the wet fabric of his suit stuck uncomfortably to his body. “Bit of a surprise is all,” he said, fiddling with a sugar packet. 

“Can’t be that much of a surprise that I wanted to catch up with you, what with the phone calls and text messages,” John replied mildly, the look in his eyes intimidating in its intensity. Greg had long since gotten over his surprise that five foot seven of doctor could be as scary as John routinely managed to make it. 

“Yeah, about that. I’ve been meaning to get in touch, but it’s been chaos; you’ve seen how crazy murder investigations are,” Greg said, hoping to smooth his friend’s ruffled feathers. 

John, for his part, didn't look at all impressed. “Too busy to reply to a text, Greg? I was on my way to your office when I saw you coming here; I’d rather not have to resort to bothering you at work in the future.”

The arrival of the barista with their drinks and Greg’s toastie bought Greg some valuable time to think, but he was still coming up short in his search for a reasonable explanation for what John had seen and Sherlock’s resultant sulking. 

With a sigh John ran a hand through his short, greying hair, stirring his coffee absently. “Look,” he said, pouring a sachet of sugar into the beverage. “It’s obvious that something happened between you and Himself. I don’t need the details but do want to know that you’re sorting it. I wasn’t there for him like I should have been after the wedding, and he ended up back on God knows what he was taking. He’s not talking to me about whatever happened the other night, but it’s obvious it’s bothering him, and I really don’t want him back there again.”

“Christ,” Greg said, staring into his own drink and feeling guilty anew. Not only had he hurt Sherlock, but also had John worrying. Granted, he hadn’t been best pleased when he’d heard that Sherlock hadn’t seen John for the best part of a month after the other man’s wedding, but that was in the past and John didn’t need to be worrying about it when he had a new born baby to deal with. “I did something stupid, and he’s been avoiding me since. He’s been ignoring my calls and wouldn’t answer the door but has certainly made his displeasure known.”

John took a sip of his coffee and Greg was relieved to see some of the tension leave him. “Go on,” he said, mouth quirking into a smile, “do tell.”

Greg swallowed his mouthful of mediocre toastie. “He’s a creative sod when he’s angry. It started with that damned greeting on his answer phone on Tuesday night and by Wednesday lunch time there was a foot in my desk drawer.”

John looked stunned for a moment before he exploded into laughter. “Bloody hell,” he gasped after a moment. “An actual foot?”

“Yeah, an actual foot. A right foot to be precise. I spoke to Molly and she said it went missing between her locking up on Tuesday night and getting to work yesterday.”

“Well,” John said with a grin, looking properly relaxed for the first time since they’d sat down, “if he’s planting feet I’d say he can’t be that mad; if he was he’d be ignoring you completely or would have had Mycroft re-assign you to some outpost in the Highlands.”

“That was my thinking,” Greg replied, finishing his lunch. “Look, I wasn’t joking when I said it’s been chaos. I’m closing a murder case and had to take over a press conference for Dimmock—”

John waved his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, stopping Greg mid-flow. “I understand how busy it can get. I just needed to know that whatever happened with Sherlock was in hand. Or foot, in your case.”

Greg couldn’t help laughing. “It’s going to be a while before I get over that! I thought Donovan was going to faint when she saw it,” Greg said, standing up. “I hate to eat and run but I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get done before I can leave tonight.”

“You’d think we’ve got nothing better to do, wouldn’t you? If I spent as much time with patients as I did on paperwork…” John grimaced and shrugged into his jacket.

“Fancy a pint on Sunday?” Greg proposed as they stepped out into the rain. “Chelsea are playing United.”

“You’re on. The Winchester?” 

“Yeah. Kick-off’s at two; I’ll get the drinks in,” Greg called over the rain, feeling much better for having cleared the air. He might still have a pissed off Sherlock Holmes out for his blood, but at least the gun totting best friend had been dealt with.


	5. The End of the Sulk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer at the top of chapter one. Thanks very much to everyone who has left Kudos! They're very welcome :)

“Come in!” Greg called, hoping like Hell that the person knocking on his door at five thirty wasn't bringing him more work. 

Jones entered his office, the spring in his step more akin to that of a Labrador puppy than a detective sergeant reaching the end of the working week. “Have you got some magic trick when it comes to the press, Lestrade?” he asked brightly, taking the seat opposite Greg.

“Eh?” Greg replied distractedly, eyes still on the case report on his computer screen. 

“Right after you spoke at the press conference this came in.” Jones leant across the desk and dropped a print out of an email on top of Greg’s keyboard. It was from ‘Scott, William’ and said nothing more than ‘The Wheatsheaf, Peckham. Speak to the landlord.’ “We wouldn’t normally act on something so woolly, but, to be honest, I was desperate. Sent a couple of the team over and they were back an hour and half later with the bastard in custody.”

Greg settled back in his chair and tried to subtly stretch his back; he was long past due a visit to his chiropractor. “So, no problems getting him in?”

“None at all. As soon as Singh asked the landlord - who turned out to be the perp’s brother - if he knew where Dickson was he cracked, started spewing all sorts of stuff about how he’d had nothing to do with it, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off the cellar door, apparently. Jackson went into the cellar and found Dickson hiding between crates of Magners. I reckon we’ve got a good case against him for hiding his brother.”

Greg nodded his agreement. “You’ve done good work on this, Jones,” he said, enjoying the look of pleasure on the junior officer’s face at the praise. 

“Thanks, sir, but we’d still be scratching our heads if it hadn’t been for this William Scott. I replied to the email asking if he had any other information while the lads were out at the pub, but the email bounced straight back.”

Knowing full well that William Scott was actually William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Greg grunted non-committedly. 

“Any way, I’ll be off,” Jones said, bouncing up from his chair. “I want to get the paperwork done before Dimmock gets back. Just wanted to thank you for covering the press conference for us.” 

The other man had bounded out of the office before Greg could reply, and he couldn’t help a smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm. His own days of endless energy for the chase were long gone, and he’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t miss them. 

Knowing that praise had always been something of a soft spot for Sherlock’s ego, Greg pulled out his phone and opened the message app.

 **To: Sherlock Holmes:** Well done, clever dick. They’ve got him.

Barely a minute later and the phone vibrated in his pocket, and Greg was unable to quash the hope that Sherlock was finally acknowledging him. 

**Sherlock Holmes** : Baker Street, after 8. 

“Finally!” Greg muttered to his empty office as he fired off a reply, confirming that he would be there. Having experienced a pissed off Sherlock several times, Greg knew that there was no guarantee that the other man would actually speak to him, but getting a text message was definitely a step in the right direction. 

He spent the next couple of hours becoming increasingly frustrated by paperwork. A form detailing the arrest of the murderous boyfriend from the previous day was followed by a form confirming that he had completed that form, which was followed by an email to his DCI requesting that _he_ complete a form confirming that Greg had filled in the necessary paperwork. He strongly suspected that the higher-ups had been off the beat for so long that they'd forgotten what actual police work was about. Either that or someone had a very strange fetish for bureaucracy. 

As annoying as it had been, the constant stream of paperwork had served its purpose, and Greg had been too distracted to worry overly about how he would be greeted by Sherlock. In his experience, the other man could sulk for England and he wouldn’t put it passed him to have issued the invitation to merely sit in silence whilst Greg tried to have a conversation with him. 

The evening was crisp as he left the building, and Greg was immediately grateful that he had managed to park relatively close by. He jammed his hands into his pockets, resolving to buy a new pair of gloves when he went shopping on Saturday, and made short work of the walk to his car. Slogging through the tail end of London’s rush hour was enough to keep him distracted from the impending confrontation with Sherlock, and twenty minutes later he managed to get parked surprisingly close to the flat. 

Greg kept his head down as he hurried along Baker Street, trying to avoid the gaze of the few remaining Sherlock fanatics who habitually haunted the area, hoping to catch the great hat detective at work. As he was approaching the handsome black door of 221b, Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping that it wasn’t Sherlock telling him to piss off as he’d changed his mind.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** It’s open. 

With a relieved sigh, Greg opened the door and stepped into the dark communal hallway, enjoying the sudden warmth after the bitterness of a cold November evening. He made sure to flick the latch, ensuring that the door was locked behind him and pocketed his phone.

Each of the seventeen stairs creaked as Greg climbed them, quickly ascending to the first floor where he paused, unsure of whether he should knock or walk straight in. Sherlock, never one for prevarication, answered that question for him by opening the door and pulling Greg into the flat by the collar of his coat. The older man barely had a moment to register what had happened, for Sherlock had him pressed firmly against the now closed door, and was doing a fantastic job of snogging him silly. Greg sank his fingers into Sherlock’s thick curls and scraped gently at his scalp, enjoying the way the taller man practically purred in response. 

As the kiss calmed down, Greg gently applied pressure to Sherlock’s left shoulder, putting a little distance between them. His lust-fogged brain slowly started to process its surroundings again, Greg gently stroked Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone with his free hand. “Hey,” he said, voice husky even to his own ears. 

“Yes, yes, hello,” Sherlock replied, attempting to initiate another kiss. 

Greg succumbed to the kiss for a moment before increasing the pressure on Sherlock’s shoulder. The other man grunted in protest and stepped back. “What’s the problem, Lestrade?” he asked, and Greg could tell from the tone of his voice that Sherlock hadn't forgiven him for the incident the other night. 

“We need to talk about Tuesday night,” said Greg, doing his best to ignore the way the scent of Sherlock’s expensive aftershave lingered, making him want nothing more than to pull the other man back against him.

“There is nothing to discuss,” Sherlock snapped, turning away in a swirl of blue dressing gown.

“Yes there is,” Greg insisted, following him into the room. “You don’t put feet in the drawers of people you’re not angry with, Sherlock.”

“It wasn’t feet, it was _a_ foot,” Sherlock countered, seemingly fascinated by the contents of a box on his desk.

“That’s splitting hairs. Look, I know you were upset by my reaction when John came in, and Christ knows I didn’t mean to knee you.”

Sherlock looked up from his box, his eyes blank. “You’re ashamed of what has been happening between us, that much is obvious,” he said, completely ignoring the horrified expression Greg knew his face must be wearing. “Talking about it won’t change it, as shame isn’t an emotion that can be dealt with easily. Psychology Today had an interesting article on the topic, specifically about internalised homophobia in the middle-aged LGBT community. Men of your age are particularly likely to exp—”

“Sherlock, no!” Greg cut in, unable to help himself. “I am _not_ ashamed. Bloody hell!” he said, wiping his hand across his face. “Is that what you thought? That I was ashamed of you? If that’s what you think, what on earth was all of that about?” Greg waved his right hand vaguely in the direction of the front door.

“Despite your obvious disdain for our activities, I found my fondness for you undiminished,” Sherlock replied, looking at a spot of apparently fascinating wall over Greg’s shoulder. 

It took a moment for Greg’s Sherlock-to-English translator to fully boot up, but he was fairly sure that that Sherlock had just said that he had missed him, despite being convinced that Greg was ashamed of him and the changes in their relationship. 

“Sherlock,” he said, crossing the room towards the other man, “I’m _not_ ashamed of you, us, or of my bi-sexuality. I might not walk around with a rainbow flag hanging out of my pocket, but I’m certainly not ashamed.” 

Sherlock didn't look at all convinced, so Greg decided that full disclosure was in order. “It’s not exactly great for those of us who aren’t straight now. I’m sure you’ve heard about what it was like back in the eighties and nineties, when AIDs was rife and gay bashing was a popular sport?” When Sherlock didn’t respond, Greg pushed on. “My being bi isn’t something that I share easily, yeah? I’ve not told John, and didn’t particularly want him to find out by walking in on us making out like a pair of horny teenagers.”

Something relaxed in Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh,” he said, moving from behind the desk and stepping back into Greg’s personal space. “John is not homophobic.”

“Maybe not, but he is ex-army, carries an unlicensed gun, and shot a cabby for you less than twenty four hours after he met you.”

The look of surprise that crossed Sherlock’s face was priceless and Greg snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know that was John; I’m not that bloody stupid,” Greg said, before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. 

“Fine, you’re not ashamed of this,” Sherlock said, a smirk curving his lips and waving his hand in the little space there was between them, “but you are afraid of John and uncomfortable having people witness romantic displays between us.” 

“I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of John,” Greg insisted, despite Sherlock being pretty much on the money. 

A rare, genuine smile creased Sherlock’s face. “It takes a special kind of idiot to be more afraid of a doctor than a spy master,” he said. 

“Mycroft’s a teddy bear really,” Greg replied, reaching out for Sherlock. “Is that clear now then? I’m not ashamed of you, or this, and you aren’t going to put any more body parts in my desk drawers, or fiddle with my electrics again.”

Sherlock inclined his head with a lascivious smile. “On one condition,” he said huskily, pressing bodily against Greg, so close that the older man could feel his heat through their clothes.

“Oh?” Greg asked, voice gone hoarse with lust.

“Never, ever, say my brother’s name when I’m about to felate you.”

“When you’re about to—” Greg started, but quickly shut up when Sherlock sank gracefully to his knees.


End file.
